Known as one of the most accomplished prose writers of the so-called Latin American Boom in fiction, Julio Cortázar was also a consummate poet. The poem translated below is taken from the last of his works to be published during his lifetime. Born in the Argentinian embassy in Brussels in 1926, Cortázar lived for most of his adult life in Paris, though he never lost his close identification with his homeland nor with Latin America in general. Famous for his wit and humour in his novels and short stories, Cortázar’s lyrical voice is endlessly inventive.

If I have to live

If I have to live without you, let it be hard and bloody,
the soup cold, my shoes tattered, or that in the midst of opulence
let the dry branch of the cough rise up, barking out to me
your misshapen name, a foam of vowels, tearing at my sheets
with its fingers, so that nothing brings me peace.
Not even from that will I learn to love you more,
but cast out from happiness
I’ll know how much joy you once gave me just by being near.
I believe I understand this, but I’m wrong:
it will require frost on the lintel
for the person sheltering in the doorway to understand
the light in the dining room, the milk-white tablecloths and the smell
of the bread thrusting its brown hand through the slit.

So far from you now
as one eye from the other,
from this assumed adversity
the look you deserve will finally be born.

I first met the Nicaraguan poet Carlos Martínez Rivas in San José, Costa Rica, in January 1977. I had just arrived in the country from Nicaragua where I had spent some weeks in the commune run by Ernesto Cardenal on the island of Solentiname in the south of Lake Nicaragua.

Carlos was staying as an unpaid guest at the Sheraton Hotel. He had little money but his prestige as a poet was such that the hotel chain felt honoured to house him.

I showed Carlos some of the poetry I had been writing in English and we became friends immediately. It was mid-morning and Carlos wanted to give me a copy of the only book of poetry he ever published, La insurrección solitaria [The solitary insurrection] but since he had no copies he invited me to accompany him on the long walk from his hotel to the offices of EDUCA, the university publisher located on the campus of the University of Costa Rica. It was a long walk under a gorgeous blue sky and Carlos was delightful company. His only advice to a young poet was to always carry a pen and notebook. He asked after many of his friends whom I had just met in Nicaragua. He had an acute intelligence and piercing blue eyes which were nevertheless very gentle when he spoke of people.

When we got to the offices of EDUCA, Carlos asked for a copy of his book in which he then wrote a long dedication to me to record our meeting. I felt very honoured to be addressed as a poet by such a brilliant master. The greatest, ultimately unrequited love of Carlos’s life had been the Costa Rican poet, Eunice Odio, and many of the poems in his book were inspired directly or indirectly by her, in particular a poem entitled “La puesta en el sepulcro” [The placing of Christ in the sepulchre].

I saw Carlos on several occasions during the week I spent in San José. And in 1983, while attending a solidarity conference in Managua, I called in at his house and invited him out to a restaurant. He was still a penniless poet and his home was quite spartan. There was a large trunk in the living room which when he lifted the lid revealed a mass of papers: there was all his unpublished poetry, virtually a lifetime’s work.

At the restaurant Carlos insisted on ordering the cheapest meal, a spaghetti with a basic sauce, but he thoroughly enjoyed himself with our conversation and with flirting with all the young waitresses who clearly adored him. On this occasion he also dedicated a new edition of his only book to me and I have kept both copies with pride.

For the Brazilian poet, Cecília Meireles, the writing of poetry was not so much a vocation or a trade nor even a compulsion. Her poetic voice was as much a part of her nature as singing is to the cicada. Recognised as one of the most important poets writing in Portuguese, she also painted and was an inspiring teacher

Acceptance

It’s easier to rest your ears amongst the clouds
and hear the passing of the stars
than to press them to the ground and catch the sound of your steps.

It’s easier, too, to cast your eyes upon the ocean
and to observe, there in the depths, the silent birth of shapes,
than to hope to appear to be creating with simple gestures
signs of eternal hope.

Neither the stars, nor sea-shapes, nor you, interest me any more.

Over time I’ve developed my song:
I don’t envy the cicadas: I too shall die from singing.

*
Motive

I sing because the instant exists
and my life’s complete.
I’m neither happy nor sad:
I’m a poet.

A sibling to all things fleeting,
I feel neither pleasure nor torment.
I drift through nights and days
on the wind.

Whether I destroy or construct,
whether I’ll last or fall apart
— I don’t, I don’t know. I don’t know
whether I’m here to stay or passing through.

I know I sing. And song is everything.
The rhythmic wing pulses with eternal blood.
And one day I know I’ll be mute:
— nothing more.

Cecília Meireles (1901-1964)